Page 83 of The Do-Over

“You too, neighbor. Good seeing ya. We should do this more often. You know, talking in the hallway, and stuff. You have a good one, buddy.”

This time, I was sure I heard him laugh as I hurried inside my apartment.

THIRTY-THREE

“Money can’t buy you happiness,

but it can help you look for it on a nicer street.”

—MIMI

The day of Lilah’s school talent show bloomed clear and sunny. I took off half a day of work, stopped for a small bouquet of daisies, and drove to the school.

Neat rows of children sat on the floor in the front of half of the gym, adults crowded in back on plastic chairs. Nate waved from the seat he’d saved me. He’d come straight from work. I knew from experience he’d smell of sweat and dirt and a hint of that fruity, clean smell I couldn’t seem to name. My heart skipped a beat, which is what it did most often these days when I caught a glimpse of him.

Being friends with Nate was an experience. He joked with me more, seemed less tense, smiled more. Twice, we ordered a pizza and ate it together with Lilah. He borrowed milk one night. It was all very neighborly and friendly and not at all distracting. At least for him.

For example, I was in no way distracted when he answered his door shirtless one evening. My eyes managed to remain firmly planted on his face the entire time.

Nope. I was completely friend-like.

So what if I might have had a dream about him one time, or four? And maybe one of them involved a steamy kiss and a declaration of love in the middle of a rainstorm while he was wearing a hard hat and a tool belt. But it wasn’t like I stared at him a little too long when he dropped off Lilah that Wednesday night. I played it all totally cool.

Because we were friends. Friends don’t have kissing dreams about their friends.

I fiddled with the cellophane wrapper on the flowers as I sat down. I offered Nate a stick of gum. I nibbled on my thumbnail.

“She’ll be fine,” Nate said and patted my knee.

The lights dimmed and the assistant principal acting as emcee announced the first act—a troupe of little girls dancing to an 80s song, complete with leg warmers and scrunchies. Next, a magician wowed the audience with his tricks, followed by two tiny singers with big voices, and then another dance routine.

Lilah was next. She waddled onto the stage in her owl costume, feathers blowing in the breeze from the AC.

“Adorable,” I heard someone whisper behind me. I straightened in pride.

“Today,” she said, her voice tiny. The entire audience leaned forward to hear better. Nate held up his phone to film. “I’ll be performing sounds of our friends, the birds.” She waved one of her wings with a flourish.

Someone chuckled.

“First, a peacock.” A screeching noise erupted from Lilah. I winced.

“Oh, brother,” a voice muttered somewhere to my left. A spattering of giggles came from the front.

Next to me, Nate frowned. “I told her not to start with the peacock.”

“And the great horned owl,” she said, and followed it up with a few hoots.

The next three minutes felt like the longest of my life. At first the audience played along—aside from a murmur here or a laugh there, they didn’t seem to mind the performance. But around bird call number seven (the pine warbler), it was clear patience was running out.

“Another one?” one of the parents near me muttered when Lilah announced number eight (the American crow). “Let’s get this over with.”

Number nine (the tufted titmouse) elicited more than a few laughs and one of the kids yelled, “She said tit!”

“How many is she doing again?” I whispered.

“One more,” Nate said. “She’s doing great.”

But every laugh and groan from the children sounded louder than the one before, and poor Lilah looked so tiny and helpless on that big stage by herself.